


Really Hot

by flamingburningfandomtrash



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: <3, Cute, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Sicfic, implied/referenced panic attack, its another sickfic but this one is fluffier, its not a big one tho dont worry everybody takes care of each other its all ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingburningfandomtrash/pseuds/flamingburningfandomtrash
Summary: Sans wakes up with a fever.Somehow.Even though it isn't really possible.It's up to you to take care of him until he can get back on his own two feet.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73





	Really Hot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ButtsPie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtsPie/gifts).



> hey this is a shoutout to "ButtsPie" who apparently read everything ive posted in the span of like a day and a half but didn't comment so  
> i dont know who or what you are, good sir, but you came into my emails like thirty times in one hour and it was like a strangely comforting slap in the face

Ah, the weekend. The perfect time to wake up late, sit back, relax. No more work. No more worrying. No more essays and reports and WORK. Just some time to sit back and relax with your boyfriend. Yep, Sans is staying over this weekend! Just because neither of you have the funds to move in together- he lives across town, and you’d need to rent quite a bit of equipment to move the furniture- doesn’t mean you don’t see each other. He always helps you unwind a little on the weekends. He constantly worries about your mental state on weekdays, mostly because sometimes when he sees you on the weekends you’re still tense and stressed. One of his recent habits has been hugging you from behind at random moments and murmuring for you to relax your shoulders. He’s gotten better at being able to tell when you’re on the edge of getting moody and pulling you away from it in just the right ways. You’re lucky to have him.

Speaking of the goober, you glance over at him- you always try to catch a glimpse before he wakes up. He has a knack for waking up in wild positions. Today he’s sporting an arm thrown dramatically over his face, while the other is stuck awkwardly under his back. One leg, somehow, is on top of the covers, and the other is falling off the bed. You’d take a picture, but in comparison to some of the wilder positions he’s woken up in, it’s pretty average. Once he was on the floor, with his feet on the bed. Another time, he was half-stuck in a pillowcase. 

Well, whatever. You’re sure another gem of a picture will come some other morning. Right now you’re in the mood for cuddles, so you roll over and spoon him. He’s really warm this morning, which you take full advantage of. You know he wakes up a little when he scoots his butt back into your hips, trying to get closer. 

“Morning,” you mumble, kissing the back of his skull. Even his head is warm. You bury your face there contentedly.

“mornin’… geez, i sound like shit,” he says, chuckling. He always sounds ‘froggy’, as you like to call it, when he wakes up. 

“Doesn’t matter, I can still hug you.”

“heh, thanks.”

You lay there together for a few more minutes, and slowly… you start to worry a bit. He has shudders going down the length of his body every other minute. His voice, despite his efforts to clear it, still sounds like someone is drowning him. His body is getting warmer and warmer. If he was a human, you most certainly would have suspected he had a cold, but… you were sure monsters didn’t get sick. Almost positive; they ARE just dust and magic, right? You can break them or bruise them, sure, but they don’t have respiratory problems. Especially not your lungless, throatless, skinless boyfriend. Even so, when you hear his breaths start to become shallower, you rub his chest.

“Are you… sick?” you question, disbelieving. “Or is this a joke?”

“won’t catch me laughin’, heh…”

“So, you’re sick.”

“i mean… i can’t be. not like, ‘i don’t believe it’, but like, that’s physically impossible.”

“But… you feel like crap, right?”

“yeah.”

“And it’s hard to breathe.”

“uh-huh.”

“And… you’re burning up.”

“yyyyyep.”

“Sounds like a fever if I’ve ever seen one. Alright,” you grunt as you sit up, pulling away from him. “Checkup time with Dr. Me. Can you sit up?”

He looks vaguely nervous about such a simple request, but obliges. You watch his elbows just slightly give out as he tries to sit up. He makes it, though, even if he’s wheezing by the end. Upon closer inspection, his face looks washed out, his eyelights are big and fuzzy, and his skull is decidedly grey. In short, he isn’t the picture of health, for him. Even his hoodie is hanging limply around his frame, giving none of the normal illusion of his having a chubby body. He looks like a starving man, really.

“Already not lookin’ great.”

“gee, thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah… Hold out your hand for me?”

He does. “what’s this show ya?”

“Um,” you laugh a little. “Can you hold it still? Like, in one place?”

“i am.”

You look from his quivering hand to his face, wondering if he’s legitimately never been sick before, or if he’s messing with you. 

“Babe, you’re totally sick right now.”

“and you’re absolutely radical, dawg.”

“You know what I mean.”

“’s not possible for monsters. i’m fine.”

You look at him and sigh.

“If you can walk to the dresser and back like a normal person, I’ll let you off the hook.”

He squints at the floor, almost contemplating if he thinks it’s worth expending so much energy. Finally, he swings his legs off the bed and, well- he attempts to stand. Key word here being ‘attempts’. His legs give out like jelly, and he’s on the floor in a second, trying desperately to hold onto the nightstand for support. You get up and get out of bed, now more worried than just curious, and help him to his feet. He leans on you like a walking stick, wheezing.

“You’re sick,” you deadpan. “Super sick.”

“‘m not sick. whaddya want me to do?”

He looks at you with a nervous lopsided smile, a bead of sweat curling down his skull from the heat. You swipe it off and caress his face a little, thinking. He watches your eyes, wondering if you’re going to tell him he can’t stay over until he’s better. That would suck. He feels like this sickness is tied to you somehow. Like he needs you to help him with it. It’s not desperate as much as he feels it would be remarkably annoying not to have you around. Finally, you speak.

“I’ve gotta make you something to eat. You have to get some rest and water. Uh, how’s your HP?”

“low,” he admits. “but ’s fine.” You sigh and pick him up, letting him pull his arms around your neck.

“We should fix that first, then, I think. Let’s get you some food.”

“thanks.”

“No problem. Don’t like seeing you all banged up, y’know. I’ll help as much as I can, but… if you need more help than I can give, I don’t know.”

“whatever yer thinkin’, know i am not goin’ to the hospital on your bill. or at all. ‘m not sick.”

“Uh. You don’t have control over that.”

“that’s not crazy reassuring, you know.”

“I’m aware. But we’re gonna patch you up, and we’re only gonna cross that bridge if we come to it.”

He knows you’re worried when you get caterpillar eyebrows. All furrowed and knitted up. It’s also what you do when you’re hiding something. They only get this fluffy when you’re hiding worry. He sighs inwardly. Great, Sans, she’s freaked out now.

“Don’t sweat it, heh, even if you can’t help it. We’ll figure this out. Meantime, though, let’s make you some food.”

“concierge?” he says, in a stuffy voice. His shitty French accent is the top-notch way to diffuse your concerns. Sure enough-

“Yes, monsieur?” you respond, giggling.

“you are ze best at zis.”

“I’m le swooning,” you giggle, kissing his forehead. He just chuckles weakly and relaxes. You’re glad- he needs a bit more rest, by the looks of it.

After getting him situated comfortably on the couch, you head over to the kitchen… what was that acronym again? The one for easy-on-the-system foods. Brat diet, you think it was called. Bananas, uh… raisins, maybe? Applesauce. Toast, for sure. Unfortunately, you know Sans is only going to approve of the toast- and the applesauce, if you’re really lucky. He’s not, nor has ever been, an “eats his fruits and veggies” kinda guy. You’re fine with that- he doesn’t need to be too healthy, as his body basically adapts whatever food he eats into magical energy. It doesn’t really matter what it is. So, you feel very little regret as you take one look at the applesauce in the top cabinet and decide to pass.

You glance up when you hear muffled coughing in the other room- he’s probably trying to cover it up with a pillow so you don’t worry. Sometimes you wonder how stupid he thinks you are… of course, you know he thinks it’s all for the best, and he doesn’t think you’re stupid. He just slightly overestimates his sneaking abilities. You fork the toast onto the plate, drop some butter on it, and carry it in. 

To your surprise, you hear a soft clattering noise. Nothing abrasive- more like a dead tree in the wind, or something. Background noise. You know the sound by heart, though. His bones are rattling. He doesn’t meet your eyes when you plop beside him on the couch. He’s told you on more than one occasion that he thinks his bones rattling is embarrassing. It’s basically the human equivalent of goosebumps. And he thinks it’s embarrassing because, most of the time, they only make much noise when he’s either really, really scared, or really, really turned on. You categorize the third option mentally: really, really sick. 

“Are you too hot?”

“oughta be askin’ you that question, gorgeous,” he wheezes. You shake your head and roll your eyes, like you can’t believe him. He won’t even look at you, and he’s trying to be all flirty.

“You’re shaking.”

“eh… just tired. kinda cold.”

“I’ll get you a blanket. You need to get some more sleep after you eat.” 

He makes a non-committal noise, mumbling something about not being sick under his breath, before sighing.

“wish i knew what this was. ’s never happened before. ’s like i wanna sleep more’n anythin’, but ’m too uncomfortable to sleep. too cold.”

You’ve been there- the last time you had the flu, it was a nightmare. He was just starting to date you when that happened, you thought he was going to pass out for how panicked he was. He thought you were gonna drop dead on the spot until Alphys came and told him otherwise.

You hand him the toast, which he takes, nodding his thanks. You stand up- “Hold on- you eat that, I’m going to go grab you a water bottle, alright? We’ll getcha comfy in no time.”

“coolio.”

As soon as you step out of the room, however, he simply stumbles to his feet to grab a blanket off the back of your recliner, tripping over his own feet on the way. He wraps it around his shoulders, and promptly collapses into the chair, sighing in relief that it’s still reclined pretty far back. He wraps the blanket around himself and shudders. Geez, he wasn’t ever this cold in the middle of blizzards in Snowdin, and now he’s rattling like a windchime. Ugh. He hopes he isn’t dying or anything.

You stroll back in the room with the water bottle, and a proper shirt thrown on instead of your pajama top. You frown when you see Sans moved, and hasn’t touched the toast. 

“Buddy. Chum. Pal. Love. Skelly-belly. Why the hell would you try to move.”

“‘m cold…”

“Have you tried putting your hands on your face? Or are you scared of scorching them?” you laugh, walking over to the recliner and tilting it the rest of the way back, and grabbing the plate of toast.

“shuddup,” he says, glaring at you. You smile and crash next to him, then maneuver him with one arm so he can lay on top of you, cuddled into your warmth. His is worrying, but nice nonetheless.

“Okay. No more teasing. But seriously, hon, you’ve gotta eat. You’re gonna be in a lot worse shape if you don’t.”

He looks at the offending toast with a frown, then back at your concerned face. It’s enough to make the decision. 

“can ya feed me?”

“Will you eat if I don’t?”

“nope.”

“Fine.”

You let him take nibbles off the toast (over a plate!) and laugh a little as he takes frequent breaks to press himself tighter against you, trying to put some warmth into his body. Finally- after about half an hour of pestering and reminding him to stay awake so he can eat, he’s finished the food. You set it on the coffee table, then wrap your arms around him so he can get some rest.

“can we bring out the heated blanket or somethin’? please?” he murmurs, tucking his feet in to keep them warm.

“No, you’ll overheat. We honestly need to get you an ice pack or two…”

“no- don’t.”

You frown at the quick, desperate words. “Okay, I won’t, just… relax. Relax, okay? We’ll find some safe way to warm you up, alright? If that’s even an option.”

“ok.”

You think a moment. You could start a fire in the fireplace, but it takes forever and it dies so fast, plus it would probably too hot. More blankets might help, but you only have a few good ones. Turning the AC up could help…? Oh! Oh, yeah, that’ll work.

“How about we get you a hot shower?”

“yeah, that sounds good… can we do it right now?”

“Sure. Might be better to do a bath, though, since you’re gonna have trouble standing. Are you sure you aren’t sick?”

“positive, sweetheart. SNOT possible.”

You glare at him for the pun, and he just chuckles- but it breaks into harsh coughs after a couple of seconds. 

“Okay, bag-o-bones. Let’s get you a bath.”

He shivers as you pick him up- his breaths are so ragged. He doesn’t even have lungs, you don’t understand it. It’s almost exactly like you were when you had the flu, but, on him. You’re so intrigued and curious and horrified, and you have so much pity for him.

“we just gonna stand here while you look at me like a kicked puppy, or are we gonna go?” he deadpans, looking away from you. 

“Sorry. I just wish I could take this for you, I guess. I’m used to it.”

He coughs as you shift him in your arms, then mutters, “i’m the only one who deserves to get sick here, sweetheart.”

You wish you could tell him just how wrong he was, but that would mean an argument about his worth to you, and you hated those. He always acted like he didn’t deserve to be happy in comparison to you. He could see the restraint on your face, though, and set the side of his head on your shoulder.

“sorry. know ya hate it when i say shit like that.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s a habit we can break together, huh?”

“yeah.”

You kiss the top of his skull and carry him into the bathroom, where you set him on the rug by the bathtub and start the warm water. He can feel it’s reassuring heat from where he’s sitting, and he honestly just wants to climb in and dunk himself in it. But you take your time adding different bath salts: you’re a firm believer in aromatherapy, and lavender and chamomile always helps you fall asleep. Maybe it’ll work on him, too. Finally, when the tub is full, you crank off the tap and lift up your boyfriend- he giggles a little while you help him get his clothes off, tickling him a little as you go. 

“pft- heheh- thanks.”

“No problem, baby. You ready?”

“yep.”

You lower him into the water, and he shudders a little as he gets used to it. He doesn’t bother cleaning himself off, since that’s not what today’s bath is for. It’s just to warm him up. 

“How’s it feel?”

“really hot,” he says, leaning his head on the side of the tub and taking a deep breath. “really good.”

“Tell me if it’s too hot, okay?”

“k.”

You sit with him, murmuring little nothings while he breathes and watches you with soft eyes. Warm water really seems to make him sleepy: or maybe it’s your bath salts. Either way, you’re relieved to see that he’s starting to pass out. It’s always really hard for you to sleep when you’re sick, and you hope it’ll get easier for him after this.

“You wanna play ten things?” you ask- ten things is a game Sans invented. You go back and forth, talking about ten things you love about each other. No repeats. It means you’re always finding something new to love about him.

“okay.”

“Okay… the way you hum when you’re making breakfast.”

“heh. your smile when you find something in a store you think i’d like.”

“Aww. When I find things for you and I think about that cute face you make when I give it to you.”

“when you kiss me even though i’m sick.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“‘cause i’m sick.”

A shit-eating grin comes onto your face- “So you admit you are totally sick right now.”

He sighs and shrugs, mumbling something and looking away.

“Ooh, lemme hear it! I didn’t hear it that time, what’d you say?” you giggle.

“you were right.”

“Haha, booyah!” he grins at you sleepily while you do your little victory dance, and reaches a hand up to pull you down for a kiss. You oblige quickly, only to jump back in horror. “Oh my GOD.”

He frowns worriedly- “what? what’d i do?”

“Sans, you’re on fire, we have to get you- get you somewhere, I don’t know!”

You scoop him out of the water hurriedly, with no regard to your now soaked clothes or the water sloshed on the tile. You grab a towel off the ground and pat him dry haphazardly: it’s easier when he doesn’t have to dry any hair- and then set him on the cold floor. He wants to get up, but finds that his limbs won’t support him, so he drags himself to the wall, leaning on it and panting heavily. You’re in your closet, rooting around for some clean, non-restrictive clothes to put him in so he doesn’t overheat in that old hoodie of his.

“I think I have to bring you to the hospit-“

“we ain’t goin’ to the hospital, it’s not that bad, i can’t afford that and neither can you. we can just wait this out, can’t we?”

You come out of your closet holding the clothes, panicked tears in your eyes.

“I don’t- I don’t know! You’re way too hot, you- you need some help, I’m gonna go- go get some, maybe some ice? Put these on,” you add, tossing him the clothes. He’s a bit distracted by the obvious panic attack you’re having, and gathers enough energy to push himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall.

“breathe, baby, i’m gonna be fine. if i were dying, i’d have fallen down by now. i’m not in any immediate danger here. it’s gonna be okay.”

“But-“

“breathe.”

You take a few deep breaths, coming over to him and getting him to sit back down on the ground- he’s shaking like dead leaves in the wind- then putting the clothes on him. He helps you as best he can, but the simple movements seem to drain him. 

“are you okay?” he asks, resting his hands on either side of your face and guiding you to look at him. 

“No,” you say, quite honestly. 

“how do i fix it?”

“You can’t really- well. You could let me put some ice on you. It would help if you could cool the hell down.”

“okay.”

After a minute, you finally gain the courage to stand, hoisting him up into your arms again and heading down to the kitchen. He sits in one of the hard chairs, waiting for you to come back with the ice. Before that bath, he was freezing. Now he’s sweltering, and it’s hard to stay awake under the oppressive heat. 

“Okay, lean back for me?” you instruct timidly, allowing him to lay back on a second chair- he lets you add a couple of ice packs to his forehead, neck, and sternum, right over his soul. He sighs in relief at that last one. “Okay, good… that feel good?”

“better,” he says, grinning at you. “you know, is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

“You have no dignity…”

“aww, dignity is boring.”

“True.”

You sit by the chairs, leaning your head on one and pressing the ice packs down, occasionally flipping them over. He just sits back and lets you, smiling to himself, for what you have no idea. 

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” you ask, pressing a butterfly kiss to his hand. “You’re still really warm.”

“sure i am. ‘m gonna kiss ya silly when this is all over.”

“Can’t wait,” you say, smiling at him. 

He notices the hunch in your shoulders, the tense way you hold yourself upright, the worry in your eyes. Your smile is forced. He reaches out and holds your face in one hand- “relax. please?”

He’s right, and you know it, even though it feels wrong to let out the tension in your body when the tension in the room is so suffocating. You lean into his hand, still pouting as you relax your shoulders. 

“What am I gonna do with you?”

“what would you do without me?”

“Good point.”

“but, if you’re still looking for an answer to your first question, i’d love some ice cream?”

You giggle and kiss him on the skull, standing. 

“I could use a bowl, too.”

(He made a full recovery.)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for so long............................  
> comment if you enjoyed or if you're a chicken who got ahold of a computer. geese are not invited to speak.


End file.
